Chapter 695: History Moves Forward
The moment the signal flare suddenly rose near Highland Outpost No. 4, Philip knew the situation had slipped beyond control.
Battlefields are woven from countless threads of chance and necessity, plans and surprises.
The seasoned professional soldiers aboard the Iron Throne reacted instantly. Within seconds, the small secondary cannons positioned along the armory and tactical sections roughly aimed at the flare’s trajectory. Then came a thunderous volley—the railgun shells tracing pale green arcs through the air before detonating in brilliant flashes atop the highland, illuminating the gloomy, rain-soaked wasteland. Yet everyone understood this barrage was merely a desperate attempt to salvage some advantage after the plan had failed.
The signal flare already launched could not be stopped. Its bright, blood-red glow bathed the entire highland and the surrounding plains. The main Typhon forces along the Changfeng defensive line had surely seen it.
The rapid secondary cannon fire lasted only thirty seconds before Philip ordered all units to cease fire. As a seasoned commander no longer green behind the ears, he knew the Typhon troops on Paramel Heights had likely withdrawn before the flare even rose. The shells had only struck the positions of a few remaining suicide squads.
Perhaps it was just a lone, brave signalman.
“General, should we force the Griffins to take off for reconnaissance?” the Iron Throne’s deputy sergeant cautiously suggested. “Or dispatch a squad of Steel Rangers…”
Philip listened to his subordinate’s advice but sighed quietly to himself.
He knew it was probably too late. The enemy commander was a cautious, rational man who likely had some understanding of Cecil’s equipment and tactics. They wouldn’t linger nearby. He also knew how much the current weather conditions would degrade the Griffins’ and ground forces’ scouting capabilities. By now, the enemy had probably already slipped far from the Iron Throne. Searching the entire Paramel region for a knightly force moving stealthily through the rain was like looking for a needle in a haystack.
After all, compared to the massive armored train with its conspicuous rail trails, scattered troops using the forest for cover were far harder to find.
Still, out of caution, Philip ordered the Griffins released. The mounts stubbornly refused to take flight in such foul weather, and the riders struggled to coax them into a low-altitude circle—barely better than nothing. As Philip expected, the reconnaissance yielded no sign of the enemy.
Upon hearing this, the young army commander’s expression remained calm. He turned to the artillery chief and ordered, “All secondary cannons, target sectors four, six, and seven, as well as the northeastern crossroads. Fire at will for ten minutes.”
“Yes, General.”
The Iron Throne’s magical power units hummed back to life. Amid the mechanical whirring and buzzing, the secondary cannon turrets fired in succession, their thunderous booms reverberating through the tactical carriage. Philip ordered a side window’s armored shutter opened. Through the dim flashes and rain, he fixed his gaze on the distant horizon.
Tonight, Cecil’s mage corps faced their most formidable foe yet. Within that murky curtain of rain, Philip glimpsed the empire’s true adversary.
Before today, Cecil’s forces had encountered all manner of opponents. The old nobility’s private armies crumbled at the first touch; traditional knights fought bravely but were past their prime; cultist legions were powerful but ultimately ground to dust beneath cannon fire; even artificial gods were merely mighty monsters destined to fall into man-made traps…
But tonight, in a rain-soaked clash, both sides had narrowly missed each other’s blades—razors scraping throats by a hair’s breadth. Amid countless accidents and coincidences, after Cecil’s forces set a near-perfect trap using weather and intelligence advantages, the Typhon withdrew almost unscathed.
No bloodbath erupted, but everyone broke out in a cold sweat.
…
Thunderous explosions echoed from various directions, tearing through the sky. Bright streaks cut across the Paramel Heights, detonating in flashes that flared and faded in the rainy night. The earth trembled, the air quivered—like a whole battalion of mages saturating the area with bombardment, the overwhelming noise rattled nerves and buzzed in ears.
The Winter Wolf First Knight Regiment swiftly shifted positions amid the storm. Explosions and lightning alternated, illuminating the rain-drenched swords and armor of the knights. Beneath every helmet, eyes flickered with tension.
Yet the regiment maintained order. Under their commander’s lead, they executed the fastest possible relocation with minimal noise.
Andersa sat astride her horse, lips pressed tight, silent as the nearby explosions flashed.
The Cecil forces had launched a terrifying assault, confirming her earlier judgment—the iron monster’s power was formidable. A single conventional knight regiment could not stand against it head-on. Strategic withdrawal was the only way to survive.
Perhaps only a fully organized mage corps and the prepared Iron River Knights could confront such a beast.
The young wolf general glanced back. The red magical signal had vanished into the clouds. Deep within the black rain curtain, only streaks of light continued to slash the sky.
She exhaled quietly.
Though the enemy’s attack was fierce, their scattered strikes showed they had not exceeded Typhon’s reconnaissance capabilities in this rain. They had lost track of the knight regiment’s position. Their blind bombardment was little more than a gamble.
The rain that once delayed the Winter Wolf Knights now served as their shield amid the shelling.
Whether she and her regiment could safely escape this rainy night now depended on luck—just as it did for the Cecil forces.
May the gods bless Typhon.
The young wolf general lifted her head, watching the rain fall steadily in the gloom. She murmured to herself, “I hope the rain doesn’t stop…”
Her accompanying adjutant heard but didn’t catch the words clearly and asked instinctively, “General?”
“Nothing,” Andersa shook her head, casting one last glance toward the iron monster’s resting place before turning back to her adjutant. “That decayed, weakened kingdom is history. The newborn Cecil Empire is a formidable enemy.”
Tonight, the empire’s elite corps faced their most dangerous foe yet. Within that murky rain, Andersa saw the empire’s true rival.
…
The Typhon forces withdrew, halting just before entering the Changfeng Fortress defense zone, then turning back.
Fully armed, Mariland left the castle and stood atop the fortress wall facing Typhon’s side, staring silently at the dark plain.
The Iron Throne’s exposure had been an accident. Battlefields never lack surprises. But according to General Philip, the Iron Throne’s vulnerability likely stemmed from the Typhon commander’s cautious, targeted reconnaissance—leading Mariland to suspect his carefully crafted “deception tactics” had been uncovered.
He smiled softly, shaking his head. “That ‘Little Wolf’… lives up to the reputation.”
“General,” aide Payne approached the wall beside Mariland. “The Iron Throne reports they have ceased firing. Preliminary assessment suggests no Typhon troops remain.”
“…This time, fate favored the Typhon,” Mariland said calmly after a pause. “Compile the intelligence and send it to His Majesty. What happens next is no longer our concern.”
“Yes, General.”
Unnoticed, the rain ceased. A cool but chilly autumn breeze swept over the walls. The dark clouds quietly parted. The day’s storm, which had raged from afternoon into night, dispersed with the wind and rain. Starlight spilled through the gaps, cold and clear.
“What a fine rain…” Mariland murmured. “It came just when needed, and stopped just in time.”
…
Intelligence from the eastern border arrived first at Saint Suniel. In the study of Silver Fortress, Gawain gathered his three grand chancellors.
“Our eastern border is secure, at least for now,” Gawain said bluntly. “The Iron Throne has reached the frontier. After a dramatic confrontation, the Typhon forces have retreated behind their defenses.”
“Here is the detailed report.” Amber’s figure appeared beside Gawain, handing printed copies to the three chancellors.
Victoria skimmed the intelligence quickly. Though the language was terse, it clearly outlined the events. After a brief glance, the Ice Duchess sighed softly. “Opportunity slipped through everyone’s fingers.”
“That’s fair,” Bertram Franklin set down his papers. “Regardless, the Typhon realized the Changfeng Fortress line has been reestablished. They’ll quiet down for now.”
Gawain shook his head, cautioning, “Only for now. An empire entering the industrial age knows no such thing as ‘restraint.’ But at least the question of war or peace is no longer theirs to decide. Hetty, what’s your take?”
Silent until now, Hetty lifted her gaze to Gawain. “Ancestor, Minister Norris has led the Agriculture Department’s experts into the Saint Spirit Plains contamination zone to assess agricultural reconstruction plans. From a long-term perspective, we truly need a period of recovery.”
Meeting Hetty’s serious, somewhat grave eyes, Gawain nodded. “Indeed, we need to recuperate… especially to rebuild agriculture.”
The situation seemed smooth. The empire was established; the coronation had greatly boosted morale across society; order had returned to the capital; nobles everywhere signed on to support reforms; the mighty Cecil war machine had thwarted Typhon’s schemes at the border, even gaining the upper hand at times—one might be tempted to think the Cecil Empire was a powerful giant ready to sweep the world.
But everyone in that room knew this “smoothness” was only surface deep.
Repeated victories had lifted spirits; temporary redistribution of benefits masked internal emptiness. Beneath the surface lay harsh realities: half the Saint Spirit Plains grain-producing region was destroyed; countless refugees needed resettlement; cities and villages required postwar reconstruction…
If the previous war had been a fiery rebirth for the old, decaying kingdom, burning away rot, then now the Cecil Empire’s task was not conquest but regrowth—letting new flesh grow where the rot had been cut away.
Among all needs, food was paramount. According to the latest emergency statistics, aside from the southern and western regions, the empire was facing widespread grain shortages. Even mobilizing all reserves would barely last until the next harvest.
To prevent mass famine, Duke Bertram had already begun negotiations with the western Ogure tribal nation to purchase grain. Under these circumstances, the empire must rest and rebuild.
“I agree with Archmagister Hetty’s assessment, but the real question is how Typhon will react,” Duke Bald began by affirming Hetty’s point, then furrowed his brow. “The skirmish along the Longwind defense line was dangerously close to full-scale war—it just didn’t escalate into a legion-wide battle. Everyone was walking a tightrope… and that tightrope can be interpreted in any number of ways.”
“They were the ones who approached the military zone first. From a moral standpoint, Typhon doesn’t hold the advantage. Our weakness lies in failing to leave a detachment behind and lacking sufficient evidence. That’s the situation on the ground. For both nations, as long as the proof is inconclusive, everything can be denied,” Gawain said. “On the other hand, judging by their willingness to engage, Typhon should be more inclined to sit down and negotiate with us after today… The situation there has changed.”
Hetty frowned. “Because of their industrial and economic transformation?”
Gawain glanced at her with a hint of approval. “Exactly. They’ve got a new ‘pie’ to divide. The small and medium nobles who were hurt by the reforms are busy renegotiating their shares. One of the biggest internal pressures in Typhon has eased for now. Before they hit the next bottleneck, Rosetta Augustus has no reason to stubbornly push for war. His current priority should be managing the industrial and economic transition carefully, to prevent his empire from spiraling out of control in the process…”
“So…” Duke Bald Franklin rubbed his temple. “Your Majesty, we should send Typhon a signal.”
“Of course,” Gawain smiled and looked at Hetty. “Immediately notify Padrick to place a new batch of orders with Typhon. Then… we wait patiently for Rosetta Augustus’s response.”
(End of chapter)